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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26177245">eight acts of desecration</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstruck/pseuds/wordstruck'>wordstruck</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>flutterbird (a collection of sakuatsu one-shots) [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Fixation and Desire, M/M, Moderately Violent Thoughts And Metaphors, Mutual Pining (sort of), Non-Contact Arousal (is that a thing), Sensory Overstimulation, Sensual Intimacy Without Any Actual Sex Or Even Much Touching, Sexual Tension, how the FUcK do i tag this, mild obsession</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:22:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,411</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26177245</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstruck/pseuds/wordstruck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Atsumu commands, soft,<br/>“Stop.”</p><p>Sakusa stops.</p><p>“Right there.” He feels those words like a hand on his jaw, holding him in place. “Don’t move.”</p><p>(<i>Then don’t look at me.</i>)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>flutterbird (a collection of sakuatsu one-shots) [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643680</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>989</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>One shots, ~SakuAtsu~</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>eight acts of desecration</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i started this draft in my fic notebook way back in... february? april? and finally finished it now XD idk why i fixated so much on artist atsumu and violinist sakusa but here we are. i just really wanted atsumu wrecking sakusa without touching him.</p><p>i have no idea how to tag this so just... take it HAHA. i hope the story works?? please nobody comment on my struggle with the title.</p><p>fic mostly edited but i'll fix any further errors!! i hope you guys like it ^_^</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p> </p><p>Sakusa should have realized this boy would leave him a wreck in the moment Atsumu lays eyes on him, across the room, in the doorway.</p><p>It’s the way Atsumu looks at him, like he can’t believe Sakusa is real and can’t stand the sight of him. Sakusa has had many people look at him throughout his life — it’s all they do when he’s on the stage, in rehearsal, on the street. But none of them look at him the way Atsumu does now, like Sakusa has robbed the breath from his lungs.</p><p>(In truth, he has. Atsumu had watched Sakusa on stage, eyes closed and hands fluttering. Inexplicably, he’d thought of birds, then of taking those soft-wing fingers and breaking them.</p><p>The way Atsumu looks at Sakusa is this: he could wrap his hands around those fine-boned wrists and break them. He wants to. He won’t.)</p><p>Atsumu stands in the doorway. Sakusa remains by the music stand. There is a still-beat moment between them. Then Atsumu surges forward, sending Sakusa staggering back to try and keep distance. A dozen different outcomes cross his mind, but none of them come close to what actually happens, which is that Atsumu—</p><p>—stops.</p><p>(Sakusa will learn that there are more soft edges to Atsumu than meets the eye. He will also learn that around Atsumu, one careless action could leave him feeling sliced open, bleeding out onto carpet.)</p><p>This is how they meet: Atsumu sat in an auditorium and watched a boy on stage. Sakusa had just sent a music hall into rapturous applause. And now Atsumu is here, because Sakusa’s music is something he wants both to ruin and to bottle up, tuck away, sink into the marrow of his bones.</p><p>Then Atsumu huffs, sharp and amused.</p><p>“Omi-kun,” he says, and his grin is foxkill, “lemme paint ya.”</p><p> </p><p>Of all things Sakusa had expected — it definitely hadn’t been that.</p><p> </p><p>.o0o.</p><p> </p><p>It starts like this:</p><p>One afternoon, Suna invites Osamu and Atsumu to watch the spring quarter showcase on a whim. <em> There’s a violinist, </em>Suna says, smirking; <em>you might like him</em>. Atsumu doesn’t have much taste for classical music, but Suna is remarkably persistent. Or not so remarkably; they’ve been friends since high school. Atsumu is very familiar with his persistence.</p><p>He’s maybe also reluctant since he thinks the music department is full of pretentious assholes. Osamu cocks an eyebrow and points out that “<em>You’re </em>a pretentious asshole.”</p><p>“Uh, no?” Atsumu looks at him askance, coffee halfway to his mouth. “I’m just a regular asshole.”</p><p>Suna hums, considering. “Nah, Osamu-kun’s right. Very pretentious.”</p><p>“<em>Oi.</em>”</p><p>He emphasizes his dissatisfaction by grumbling all the way to Josho Hall (with a pause to check on his painting on display — plenty of people, <em> ha</em>). He grumbles as Osamu drags him into the auditorium. He doesn’t stop grumbling until they’ve taken their seats and the lights have gone out, and the first performer takes the stage.</p><p>Violinist, Atsumu notes absently, more preoccupied with disrupting his twin’s photography. Then a hush falls over the audience, and he looks up in surprise. From where he sits, he can just make out someone tall, with strict posture and a simple suit. Dark hair that, under the stage lights, looks bathed in starlight.</p><p><em> No accompanist, </em>he realizes, blinking in confusion.</p><p>The violinist doesn’t bow, doesn’t make any gesture to preempt his performance. He simply tucks the violin under his chin. Lifts the bow to the strings. Pauses.</p><p>And then he plays.</p><p> </p><p>With no piano in tandem, the sound echoes through the hall, high and haunting. The melody is — poignant, resonating. Atsumu has no idea what piece it is or what the technical aspects of music are, but—</p><p>The way the violinist plays: all control, a study of technique. Like the fine edge of an ornate dagger that can cut down to bone. Like the performance is a challenge and a demand.</p><p>
  <em> Look at me. Listen to me.  </em>
</p><p>The piece ends the same way it began. The violinist draws out the last note, then flicks his bow to the side. Gives a perfunctory bow. Exits the stage. He trails stunned, scattered clapping in his wake, that eventually crescends into thunderous applause.</p><p>Atsumu sits there, breathless, staring with wide eyes and an open-mouthed smile.</p><p>Osamu glances at him sidewise, corner of his mouth curling up. “His name,” he says, “is Sakusa Kiyoomi.”</p><p> </p><p>.o0o.</p><p> </p><p>Sakusa flat-out refuses.</p><p>Miya Atsumu has a reputation that Sakusa wants nothing to do with. In general, he wants little to do with people, content with his practice and his music. Then there’s the way Atsumu looked at him, all mischief and foxkill, like—</p><p>(Sakusa has always kept half the world and himself at arm’s length. He’s never had interest in learning how it feels to be wanted like this. He’s never had an interest in learning how it feels to be consumed by something that will not care after it’s swallowed you whole.)</p><p>He maintains that Atsumu pisses him off — that he doesn’t care — but curiosity draws him to the visual arts department a few days before Golden Week. He’s just here to look, he tells himself; just here to check and nothing more. He walks into the lobby-turned-gallery and scans the works displayed inside.</p><p>There is a painting on the far wall. Sakusa’s feet carry him over to it. His breath catches between inhale and exhale as he looks and looks and—</p><p>Sakusa knows little about art, but something — something is— It’s in the small details, the bold strokes; the point of view that feels almost intimate, like the painting has stripped its subject raw. Like an intrusion into a moment not meant other eyes. Sakusa has no idea who the grey-haired boy in the painting is, but he feels caught by the intensity of the expression. He feels <em> struck.  </em></p><p>“Changed yer mind yet?” someone drawls behind him.</p><p>It takes every ounce of Sakusa’s control not to flinch. Atsumu is there, too close even when two feet away. It pulls a scowl from Sakusa, a defensive curl to his shoulders. Never mind that it’s obvious what he’s doing.</p><p>“I’m just sayin’,” Atsumu goes on, cat-canary amusement in the corner of his mouth. “I ain’t askin’ much — just want ya to pose for me.”</p><p><em> And what else?, </em> Sakusa wants to ask, gaze fixed on Atsumu, searching for — something, he doesn’t know. For the catch, for the shoe waiting to drop. If Atsumu wants to render him the way he’d done the grey-haired boy in this painting then Sakusa wants to know what’s at stake. <em> What would I get, what is this for, what will you do to me while I stand there and let you pick me apart— </em></p><p>“Why me?” he asks instead. Atsumu’s grin widens.</p><p>“‘Cause,” Atsumu says, sly, “you’re interestin’.” A pause. “Omi-kun.”</p><p>Sakusa bristles at the nickname even if he knows he’s cornered. He feels his flight response in the soles of his feet, the sharp lines of tension in his shoulders. <em> Don’t call me that</em>, he thinks, <em> don’t, don’t, don’t. </em></p><p> </p><p>He finds himself outside Atsumu’s apartment three days later.</p><p> </p><p>In truth, Sakusa has no idea what to expect — of Atsumu’s apartment, his studio, his art; of Atsumu himself, and the foxkill lurking in his expression. He already regrets coming and he isn’t even inside.</p><p>As if sensing blood in the water, or Sakusa’s fraught hesitation, the door opens before he can even knock.</p><p>“‘Bout damn time,” Atsumu tells him, then lets him inside.</p><p>The genkan is narrow, but Atsumu gives Sakusa room to take off his socks and shoes, unpack his own slippers. He keeps his distance as he leads Sakusa through the tiny common space of the apartment. Sakusa gets impressions — a cluttered kitchen, a dozen bright pillows on the couch, a tiny balcony — then Atsumu opens the door to his studio.</p><p>It’s the lack of color that hits Sakusa first. There are several sketches scattered on the floor. Sheer white curtains filter the light through the slightly-open windows. Some small shelves line the nearby wall. There’s no paints or pastels anywhere visible. There’s a single easel and a stool near the doorway. There’s a boy gesturing him towards the other side of the room.</p><p>“Didja bring yer violin?” Atsumu asks. Sakusa lifts his instrument case in answer.</p><p>Atsumu nods once, then waves Sakusa forward while he shuffles back towards the easel. Uncertain of what’s expected of him, Sakusa simply stops in the middle of the room, then looks at the other boy. Atsumu’s eyes narrow; Sakusa feels the atmosphere shift, the intensity almost tangible. It makes his breath stick in his throat.</p><p>“One step back, two to the right,” Atsumu tells him. Sakusa complies, feeling the sunlight warm his shirt.</p><p>“Turn around.”</p><p>The curtains are sheer, fluttering in a faint breeze.</p><p>“Get yer instrument.”</p><p>It grates at him to leave the instrument case on the floor. His hands don’t shake as he carefully lifts the instrument out. He doesn’t glance at Atsumu as he straightens back up.</p><p>“Under yer chin.”</p><p>“Are you just going to stand there and boss me around?” he deadpans, looking over his shoulder to scowl at the other boy.</p><p>Atsumu cocks an eyebrow, unimpressed. “If ya can’t do the damn pose, I’m findin’ another model.”</p><p>“No you won’t,” Sakusa counters, eyes narrowed. “You want it to be <em> me.</em>”</p><p>“Then pick up the damn violin.”</p><p>They stare at each other for a long moment. There’s a challenge in Atsumu’s eyes, and backing down means giving in means defeat.</p><p>Sakusa picks up the violin.</p><p> </p><p>As a performer, Sakusa is used to being watched, but not like this. Never like this.</p><p>There’s an slant to Atsumu’s gaze as he sits there, like he’s cataloguing all inches of Sakusa’s body, the bend of his arms, the tilt of his head. Perhaps he is, because that’s how Sakusa feels — assessed, measured. It’s a struggle not to be self-conscious, no matter that his posture is perfect. It’s a struggle not to pack up and leave, take himself away from Miya Atsumu and his prying eyes.</p><p>But whatever had compelled him to come here is now rooting his feet to the floor. It has him here, now, violin raised and body half-turned towards Atsumu, presenting the curve of his spine, the cut of his jaw, the profile of his face.</p><p>Sakusa keeps his eyes fixed on his fingers. He has no idea what he might do if he meets Atsumu’s gaze.</p><p>He’s been standing for over an hour when Atsumu sets down his sketchpad and asks, “Can we try somethin’?”</p><p>(Sakusa knows it’s not a question.)</p><p>“Depends,” he asks warily. He lowers the violin, trying to relieve the ache in his arms, not used to holding still for so long. His hands close over the neck of the instrument, the bow, fingers pressing into strings.</p><p>The look Atsumu gives Sakusa now could raze cities to the ground.</p><p>“Take yer shirt off.”</p><p>His next inhale comes sharp, like it’s been yanked from his lungs and up his throat. It sends a starburst of heat through Sakusa’s chest. <em> No </em>— no. He can’t. No — he wants to. No — he’s vulnerable enough, standing here bathed in sunlight like this. If he exposes more of himself to Atsumu’s gaze he might have nothing left.</p><p>He’s kept so much of himself hidden away from annoying, prying eyes. Kept himself covered up. The last person he wants to reveal anything to is the boy across the room.</p><p>(But part of him wants to. He wants Atsumu to graze all his own sharp edges, find the dips and planes that Sakusa has never bothered to learn of himself. He wants to run away from this studio and the boy on the painter’s stool. He wants Atsumu’s smudged hands all over him.)</p><p>“I—” His shoulders tense, shifting under soft fabric. (What he doesn’t hear Atsumu think: <em> wings, </em> and <em> rip them off.</em>)</p><p>“I ain’t movin’ from here,” Atsumu tells him, more docile than Sakusa thought possible, and that more than anything compels Sakusa to concede.</p><p> </p><p>Sakusa’s fingers have never shaken since he’d begun playing the violin — not on stage, not in front of five hundred people watching.</p><p>There is a tremor, now; an uncertainty as he slides the first button through its hole.</p><p>Sakusa looks at Atsumu and Atsumu stares right back as the front of his shirt dips open, inch by inch by inch. The weight of those eyes on him is almost choking. Every movement feels like telling a secret: the bob of his throat as he swallows, the part of his lips on an exhale. The deliberate downward path of his hands as he unearths his own skin.</p><p><em> You put yourself up to this, </em>Sakusa thinks.</p><p>The shirt slides off his shoulders to the floor. The cool air ghosts over his skin, making him shiver.</p><p>“Pick up the violin,” Atsumu says. (Is this how tyranny feels? It must be.)</p><p>Sakusa resumes his pose, half-turned to Atsumu. He tucks the instrument under his chin. Breathes through the slow-blooming ache in his ribs. He’s never had such unsteady hands before.</p><p>Atsumu doesn’t ask for anything else, which — good, because Sakusa doesn’t think he can go further than this. It’s almost too much as it is, standing here with his bony shoulders bared, feeling Atsumu’s eyes drag down his spine like a physical touch. It feels more intimate than he could possibly bear and yet he wants more. Sakusa stands and breathes into empty spaces and doesn’t shake. He doesn’t.</p><p>“Omi-kun.”</p><p><em> Don’t call me that, </em> he wants to bite out.</p><p>“What,” he snaps instead.</p><p>“Look here.”</p><p>Instinct is the only thing preventing him from dropping his instrument. His upper body twists around, mouth opening because <em> What the fuck are you playing at? </em>Then Atsumu commands, soft,</p><p>“Stop.”</p><p>Sakusa stops.</p><p>“Right there.” He feels those words like a hand on his jaw, holding him in place. “Don’t move.”</p><p>(<em>Then don’t look at me.</em>)</p><p>Sakusa falls still. Atsumu stares at him for a long, stripped-raw moment. Briefly, Sakusa thinks Atsumu is going to stride over and wrap rough hands around his throat to throttle him.</p><p>(There is a split-second where he wishes Atsumu would. Perhaps it would be less painful than this — whatever it is the other boy makes him feel with that expression.)</p><p>The sketchpad flips open. Sakusa lowers his eyes.</p><p>This is nothing like being on stage to perform. He feels claustrophobic. No — he feels suffocated. No — he feels cornered, like Atsumu has broken him open and spilled his dirtiest secrets to eat up like candy. He feels consumed and he hates it. Just an hour ago, Atsumu’s gaze had felt like an itch under skin. Now Sakusa feels like every inch of himself is sparking, like he’s full of radio static. Like he’s been set alight.</p><p>(There are more soft edges to Atsumu than he’d thought, but too much of Atsumu is still sharp and dangerous.)</p><p>He doesn’t tell himself it’s because of the way Atsumu almost-worships him but stares at him with a violence that’s half-overwhelming. He doesn’t tell himself that maybe he wants to be taken apart by those pencil-smudged hands. He doesn’t tell himself he likes it.</p><p>Sakusa is used to adoration, but he’s never known reverence like this.</p><p>Across the room, Atsumu keeps drawing.</p><p> </p><p>When he returns to his own apartment, Sakusa spends an extra ten minutes in the shower, trying to scrub off the feeling of Atsumu’s gaze from his body. But even when his skin is pink and raw from the soap and the hot water, the sensation of static under skin lingers.</p><p>He looks at himself in the mirror — the lines of his body, the little marks, the tone of his muscle. He wonders how Atsumu sees him, if he can recognize the conflict he started when he’d asked, <em> let me paint you.  </em></p><p>Sakusa tears his gaze away from the mirror and goes to make dinner. Never mind that he still feels off-balance; there is reassurance in routine. He preps the ingredients, cooks the meal, eats it quietly at his countertop with Midori playing on speaker.</p><p>There is a single text from Atsumu that he hasn’t opened yet. If he’s avoiding it, no one else has to know. Still, he doesn’t respond until he’s getting ready for bed, until he’s turned his answer over and over (and no matter that he only has one).</p><p> </p><p><b>miya.atsumu &lt; </b> same time ?<br/><b>sakusa.kiyoomi &gt; </b>Fine.</p><p> </p><p>Sakusa does not breathe any easier the second time around, standing in the middle of Atsumu’s studio with his violin. He’s listened to Atsumu make and discard several dozen sketches — some half-started, some half-done — before finally seeming to settle on one. If this is normal or if Atsumu’s process is weird, Sakusa has no idea and doesn’t know how to ask.</p><p>So he just stands there with those eyes fixed on him, and tries not to feel pried open.</p><p>The sky outside has been slowly darkening. Sakusa hesitates, wondering if he should leave now, cut this session short. But just as he’s lowering the violin, the rain starts. And it isn’t a spring shower, no; it <em> pours, </em>making Sakusa flinch away as heavy drops fall onto window panes.</p><p>Atsumu’s there in seconds, closing the windows and checking if any water has leaked to the floor. Sakusa cradles his violin, mindful of damp. The deluge means the lighting’s messed up, but also means Sakusa’s stuck for the time being. And while he wants to leave — he hates feeling trapped — he hates being out in the rain more.</p><p>“You can stay,” Atsumu says, out of the blue.</p><p>Sakusa blinks, askance. Atsumu just shrugs as he walks back to his stool, shutting the sketchbook and mounting it back on the easel. “I ain’t gonna force ya,” he continues, tone casual, not glancing Sakusa’s way. “But if ya don’t wanna go out into that, ya can stay here first. I don’t mind.”</p><p><em> No </em>is on the tip of his tongue, but Sakusa is practical. Rational. He doesn’t want to be confined in a tiny apartment with Atsumu until god-knows-when, not when being around Atsumu makes him feel so off-kilter. But heading home in the storm would be worse, and he’d be risking his violin. Practicality wins out, although he’s already scowling at the thought of everything he’ll have to borrow.</p><p>“I’m not posing anymore today,” he mutters, turning away to pack up his violin.</p><p>He’s expecting more of a fight, but to his surprise, Atsumu simply agrees. He even gives Sakusa newly-laundered clothes to wear. He cooks them both dinner when it’s clear the rain isn’t going to die down anytime soon; puts fresh sheets on his bed when it gets late. He lays the futon on the other side of his room, away from where Sakusa will sleep.</p><p>It’s almost — companionable. It’s a stark contrast to Atsumu in the studio, stripping Sakusa down to bone with a look. When Sakusa offers to do the dishes, Atsumu even gives him a soft-edged smile.</p><p>If Sakusa had felt off-kilter before, he’s absolutely lopsided now.</p><p><em> Look at me, </em>he wants to say. He doesn’t.</p><p> </p><p>(In truth, Sakusa has never needed to ask. Atsumu had been struck breathless from the moment Sakusa lifted the bow to his violin. He hasn’t looked anywhere else. He doesn’t want to.)</p><p> </p><p>When Sakusa jolts awake in the morning, on unfamiliar sheets in an unfamiliar room, a quiet voice says, “It’s just me.”</p><p>He squints through the sunlight to find Atsumu sitting on his futon, leaning against the far wall. He’s sketching.</p><p>“If ya wanna leave for the morning and come back, go ahead.” Atsumu points his pencil at the foot of the bed. “Did yer laundry for ya.”</p><p>There’s a small pile of clothes by Sakusa’s feet. His violin is still leaning against the bedside table. The smell of coffee wafts in through the door; the traffic sounds filter through the small windows.</p><p>Sakusa sits up, eyeing Atsumu warily.</p><p>“The fuck are you doing,” he asks, because he has no politeness in the mornings.</p><p>A corner of Atsumu’s mouth curls up. “Working through some inspiration.” He closes the sketchpad and stands, stretching. Sakusa tears his eyes away from the lines of his body. Tucking the sketchpad under his arm, Atsumu tilts his head.</p><p>“Breakfast?”</p><p> </p><p>Against his better judgement, Sakusa stays the rest of the day.</p><p>He shouldn’t; he’s better off spending the morning in practice, or cleaning his apartment. He should at least get fresh clothes. But he finds himself in Atsumu’s studio after breakfast, violin tucked under his chin, fingers pressed lightly to the strings. Atsumu pauses his sketching for a moment, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed.</p><p>When he stands, Sakusa has to fight not to look at him.</p><p>Atsumu moves slowly, deliberately, always within Sakusa’s peripheral vision. When he’s an arm’s length away, he stops. His motions are careful, telegraphed, as he reaches out and adjusts Sakusa’s arm — fingers touched lightly to Sakusa’s wrist, a soft nudge, nothing more. Then he steps back, squinting a moment longer before nodding and returning to his seat.</p><p>It was only a few moments. It was one single point of contact. </p><p>Sakusa grits his teeth and resumes staring at his own hand, and tries not to think of how the skin of his arm had burned under Atsumu’s touch.</p><p> </p><p>Atsumu finishes his lineart that afternoon, setting his pencils down with a long sigh. Sakusa glances at him and loosens his posture, about to lower his violin, but then Atsumu holds a hand up.</p><p>“Hang on a mo’,” he says, getting up and rifling through his shelves.</p><p>He comes back with a Polaroid camera, a little scuffed. A gesture prompts Sakusa to resume his pose. It’s different, having Atsumu watch him through the lens, adjusting angles before he clicks the shutter and waits for the film to emerge. He takes several photos before he’s satisfied. Sakusa feels like he’s breathing in splinters.</p><p>“There,” Atsumu murmurs, and he sets the camera down. “All done.”</p><p>Sakusa frowns. “No it’s not.”</p><p>Atsumu waves the still-developing photos. “I got my references already. Ya don’t have to show up here anymore.” His grin is cat-canary again. Sakusa wants to slap him. “I’ll let ya know when it’s finished.”</p><p>He turns to set the photographs aside, and when his gaze cuts away Sakusa feels—</p><p>(Bereft. Rejected. Lacking.)</p><p> </p><p>When he finally returns home that evening, he takes another long shower. This time, he lingers in front of the mirror, deliberately looking himself over. The expanse of his skin, slightly pink from the hot water; the damp fall of his curly hair that his mother insists makes him look <em> romantic. </em>The beauty marks scattered across his skin.</p><p>He wonders how Atsumu will render all this, fit color into Sakusa’s image. Are there any beauty marks on his back that he’s never seen? What do the lines of his body look like from someone else’s perspective?</p><p>He wonders if people will look at the painting of him and feel the same as he had, standing in front of a canvas, with a grey-haired boy looking somewhere just out of frame.</p><p>(He wonders if that boy felt the same as he had, standing in the middle of Atsumu’s studio, the weight of that stare stripping him down to the bone.)</p><p> </p><p>He shows up the next day, and the shock on Atsumu’s face is well worth it. Sakusa smirks, vindictive, stepping around Atsumu to get inside. He knows Atsumu hadn’t expected him to come back, just as he knows being here is more brazen an act than anything he’s done in his life. But he <em> is </em>here. He wants to be.</p><p>It’s surprisingly freeing.</p><p>“What?” he asks, looking over his shoulder to where Atsumu’s still standing in the genkan, stock-still. “You’re not gonna get it right from just a photograph.”</p><p>Atsumu stares at him for a moment, incredulous. Then he makes a choked noise. Sakusa watches as he presses a hand over his mouth, muffling his laughter. His eyes crinkle at the corners, cheeks going pink.</p><p>(It’s stupidly graceless and stupidly attractive. Sakusa hates himself for thinking that at all.)</p><p>“Suit yerself,” Atsumu says, a little out of breath. He gestures Sakusa further into the apartment with a grin. </p><p>Sakusa’s grip tightens around the handle of his violin case. He meets Atsumu’s gaze with narrowed eyes. But Atsumu just shrugs, moving past him to lead him to the studio.</p><p> </p><p>This time, Atsumu’s stare is a challenge, one that Sakusa is determined to meet and overcome. He’s the one making Atsumu look at him now, hair falling over his brow, eyes half-closed and lips lightly parted. The sunlight bathes Sakusa’s bare shoulders, so much warmer than any on-stage spotlight.</p><p>Atsumu looks at him for long moments, scrutinizing the shades and hues of his body. He mixes pigments over and over, swatching until he’s satisfied. When he finally puts brush to canvas, Sakusa feels the colors fill in as if Atsumu’s painting his own body. The flex of his shoulders, the contour of his cheek; the play of light over his fingers. All the dips and planes and edges. Atsumu doesn’t have to touch him to bring slow-blooming tremors under his skin.</p><p>(What if he allowed it, though? What if he set down his violin now, crossed the room and pulled Atsumu’s hands to splay over his hips? What would it feel to have those fingers smear color directly onto his chest, his mouth? Would Atsumu handle him with the same finesse he wields his brushes, his pencils? Would he paint worship onto Sakusa’s skin?</p><p>Sakusa watches Atsumu on the other side of the room and thinks — he could take those stained fingers and wrap them around his throat. He wants to. He won’t.)</p><p> </p><p>.o0o.</p><p> </p><p>When Atsumu asks to see Sakusa’s violin, he expects the other boy to say no.</p><p>But Sakusa has been surprising him lately, ever since he’d showed up on Atsumu’s doorstep and said Atsumu couldn’t paint him based only on photographs. He hands over the instrument slowly, watching every touch, every brush of now-clean fingers. Atsumu takes his time, dragging artist’s hands over the wood, examining the strings and the fingerboard. He slips his fingers through the pegs, caresses the curves.</p><p>(Sakusa wonders, fleeting, if this is how Atsumu would touch as a lover. He almost tells him, demands, <em> show me.</em>)</p><p>Then Atsumu returns it to him and says, “Play for me.” </p><p>He’s not asking.</p><p>For a still-beat moment, this time, he thinks Sakusa will say no.</p><p>Then the other boy’s fingers curl around the neck of the violin, and he steps back. Every inch of him now reads <em> defiance.  </em></p><p>This is only the second time Atsumu has heard Sakusa play, but it is every bit as breathtaking. The piece he chooses is complex, something even Atsumu can tell is difficult and highly-charged, so different from the first time. On and on and on he plays, wild and unrestrained, not at all how he was on the stage, drenched in artificial light. Sakusa in an auditorium has control, poise, perfect form. Sakusa here, in Atsumu’s little studio, plays like he wants to stun the world into silence.</p><p><em> Look at me, </em>this boy says, drenched in sweat and sunlight. Atsumu watches the shift of sharp shoulder blades under skin and thinks, again, of wings. He imagines them sprouting from bone, then imagines ripping them to pieces. He imagines dragging an open mouth over the protrusions until Sakusa is shaking beneath him from the sting of teeth.</p><p>He staggers back, shoves aside his paints. Fumbles for pencils and a sketchbook. Sakusa’s music fills the apartment until it’s all Atsumu can hear, singing between his ribs, in his lungs.</p><p>He starts sketching.</p><p> </p><p>.o0o.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not long at all but it feels like an age; feels like it’s been hours and days while there is only the sound of Sakusa’s violin, only Atsumu’s graphite-smudged fingers. Only the two of them in this space, locked away from the world. Sakusa has no idea how many songs he’s run through, or how many pages Atsumu’s covered in sketches. It doesn’t matter.</p><p>When Sakusa jerks his bow away, when Atsumu drops his pencils, both of them are out of breath. They stare at each other, stunned, at a loss. The air between them is thick with tension, so much that Sakusa’s almost choking with it. He’s afraid that if he moves even a little, he’ll fracture.</p><p>Then Atsumu staggers forward, sending Sakusa staggering back to try and keep distance. He collides with the wall, trapping him in place. The strings of his violin dig into his palm. For a moment there it feels like Atsumu might take Sakusa’s hands to fracture each calloused digit.</p><p>(Perhaps Sakusa wants him to. Perhaps it would be a grace.)</p><p>A dozen different outcomes cross his mind, but none of them come close to what happens, which is that Atsumu—</p><p>—kisses him.</p><p>There is a deliberate distance between them. Atsumu holds himself away, hands braced on the wall, body so tense he’s trembling.</p><p>His mouth of Sakusa’s is soft, careful-careless. Atsumu catches the shock of Sakusa’s exhale between his teeth. He eases Sakusa into it, this exquisite tease of intimacy. Sakusa’s back is cool from the concrete but the rest of him is singing from the heat of Atsumu’s body scant inches from his own, almost, almost, almost.</p><p>Atsumu pulls away.</p><p>“Gotcha,” he murmurs into the space between them, and Sakusa has never known a word to sound so <em> filthy. </em>He bares his teeth. Atsumu grins foxkill. The air sparks between them like firelight.</p><p>Then Atsumu shifts backwards and holds his hands up in the air, eyes crinkled in cat-canary amusement.</p><p>“Down, boy,” he drawls, laughing as he retreats. Sakusa stands there, inhale-exhale-breathe, until his equilibrium returns.</p><p>“I will strangle you with rusty strings,” he rasps. His throat feels raw. He’s not entirely sure it’s a hollow threat.</p><p>Atsumu’s grin just widens. He reaches for Sakusa’s discarded shirt and tosses it over.</p><p>“I’d let you.”</p><p> </p><p>When Sakusa leaves that evening, Atsumu’s eyes linger on him, and the weight of that gaze is more intimate than any physical touch. For a moment, he’s tempted to step back inside, close the door, let Atsumu take more than just a kiss.</p><p>“Good night, Miya,” he says instead, and steps outside.</p><p>It’s the last they see of each other until the break is over.</p><p> </p><p>When they get back to school, they don’t talk. Atsumu stays with his friends and Sakusa stays with his violin in otherwise-empty practice rooms. It’s as if the last week never happened, except—</p><p>Except there are times Atsumu’s gaze follows him — along hallways, across quads, from the other side of a room. And Sakusa sees blond hair in his peripheral vision, hears graceless laughter. It’s like a dance, careful and tentative, both of them gauging boundaries they’d forgotten existed. </p><p>Then Komori sidles up to him one afternoon and asks him what he did over Golden Week.</p><p>He notices, then — people whispering, people glancing his way, people watching him. Komori pesters him about how he met Miya Atsumu in the first place. Still, it takes a while before Sakusa returns to the visual arts department, delaying and delaying until he’s run out of excuses.</p><p>The painting of him is there in the lobby.</p><p>It’s — exquisite, but it doesn’t feel like him. It’s full of small details in bold strokes. It makes the viewer feel like they’re intruding into a private moment, something not meant for prying eyes. Sakusa hadn’t even known about the beauty marks on the ridge of his left shoulder blade, scattered like Orion’s constellation.</p><p>(<em>This is what Atsumu sees when he looks at you.</em>)</p><p>“So d’you like it?” someone drawls behind him. This time, Sakusa doesn’t flinch.</p><p>“You’re really full of yourself, you know,” he retorts, biting down on a smile.</p><p>“With good reason.” Atsumu’s beside him now, eyes on him, not the painting. He rather likes that. He wants Atsumu looking at him.</p><p>Sakusa snorts softly and turns away. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself.”</p><p>He’s just starting to think he might walk away unscathed when Atsumu calls after him.</p><p>“Omi-kun.” Atsumu <em> has </em>to know how much that nickname grates him. “Lemme sketch ya.”</p><p>He can feel that gaze on him like a physical touch.</p><p>“What if I say no?”</p><p>“Nah.” (That voice; a grin like foxkill.) “Ya won’t.”</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>THANK YOU for reading wow i hope that came off as overwhelming as i intended ^^;; come say hi on twitter!! i'm <a href="https://twitter.com/redluxite">@redluxite</a> and i yell about haikyuu/bnha a lot. you can also find ways to support my writing there.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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